


We took care of it.

by Scientia_Fantasia



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: But also, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Schmoop, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientia_Fantasia/pseuds/Scientia_Fantasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jim, what the hell? You look like you got attacked by a coyote!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We took care of it.

**Author's Note:**

> alright i admit i'm a little nervous at posting new fic for such an intense and ancient fandom and really want to leave a disclaimer here about how i know fuckall about Star Trek, i just really got into the new movies, read a wiki article, and was revving to go. So, uh.
> 
> I really wanted to write Spock sulking in a blanket mound
> 
> the rest of this was just a happy bonus
> 
> have fun

Jim stood outside of Spock’s quarters, arms crossed, glaring at the door with a look that was mostly worry, with some irritation mixed in for maximum effect. Maybe if he seethed long enough the Vulcan locked up inside would pick up on it, realize exactly how unacceptable his behavior was, and come slinking out to apologize.

He hadn’t shown up on the bridge the last few shifts. But that wasn’t exactly the problem. They weren’t in the middle of anything particularly strenuous, and they had someone to replace him, of course they did. The issue was Spock hadn’t been to see medical, hadn’t dropped a word to anyone about what he was doing, and wasn’t _opening his door_ when the last words, as far as Jim could tell, anyone had heard from him were “ _I need to return to my quarters. Please carry on without me._ ”

The issue was Spock had broken regulation without telling anyone _why_ and that was—

Worrying. The issue, at its heart, was that Jim was worried, and he didn’t like it.

He pounded on the door again. “Spock? _Spock_ , I know you’re in there.” He didn’t, in fact, _know_ , and waited to see if a voice would drift out challenging his assumption.

No such luck.

“Okay, I’m going to give you thirty seconds to at least _tell me what’s wrong_ before I override this door.”

The idea that he was currently having to parent his first officer, of all people, rose up like a little amused bubble in his mood. That is, until the response came, in a burst of the emotional equivalent to a bucket of ice water, complete with goose bumps and all. Jim grit his teeth against every nerve in his body screaming at him to _turn back_ , and, what the fuck, could Vulcans even _do_ that?

“I’m not scared of you, Spock,” he said. Usually, it would be true. At the moment, fighting to keep his breathing steady, he wasn’t all that sure.

“Three,” he said, though he hadn’t really been counting. “Two…” If he’d scraped a few seconds off his time limit, it only seemed fair at this point.

He didn’t, in fact, have to override anything, because a quick dusting off of a pneumonic device (details a closely kept secret, for his own safety) revealed that the door code hadn’t been changed since the last time he’d snuck a glance at it.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting. A small part of him catastrophized some kind of werewolf situation, with everything broken, torn to shreds, flickering lights, the whole deal. What he definitely _wasn’t_ expecting were Spock’s quarters, exactly as Spock’s quarters always were, except with a breathing lump of blankets bundled up on the bed, emanating an almost palpable sense of acute vitriol for all living things.

Jim’s self-preservation instinct kicked in just in time for a barely amused “Spock? You alright there?” in lieu of breaking out into laughter at the sight. He was still worried, don’t get him wrong, but the situation was too absurd to _not_ tickle a little.

“Go. Away.”

Alright, his self-preservation instinct wasn’t _that_ strong, and he huffed/coughed his way through stifling a laugh. “I will, alright? Just…tell me what’s wrong. Or, hell, tell _anyone_ what’s wrong, but you can’t just disappear for days without at least a doctor’s note. You, of all people, have to understand that.”

The blanket mound shifted slightly.

“I do regret my departure from regulation. However, I did arrange for a replacement, and I do not believe there is any treatment on this ship that would ease my ailment.”

Without the muffling of the blankets and the underlying strain in his voice, he would have almost sounded normal.

Jim sighed, placing one hand on his hip and the other at his forehead, rubbing it in irritation. With any luck this was just some Vulcan equivalent to a rhinovirus and Spock was being melodramatic. “Okay, well,” he conceded, “when’ll you be back on the bridge?”

And that could have been it, except that his question was met with silence.

“…I mean, you’re not _dying_ , are you?”

He meant it as a joke. The silence that, again, followed, changed the meaning a little.

“ _Spock_.”

“You can say my name in any tone you like, Captain; it will not get more information out of me.”

And, har har, that would have been funny too if it weren’t for the pit of dread now growing in Jim’s stomach, no psychic interference needed. He marched over to the bed, against warnings of “I would not come any closer,” and “I can’t guarantee your safety if—”

He yanked the blankets up, and there was Spock, shirtless, flushed green, mussed hair, pupils blown so large his brown eyes may as well have been black. Jim didn’t have long enough to consider what just the _sight_ of that was doing to his blood flow before a hand reached up and tugged him down, _really_ pulled, did his shirt tear? Maybe, but he was too busy sorting together the various other details flooding his brain at the moment, such as: he was on his back, in Spock’s bed, with said Vulcan’s face aggressively nuzzling the crook of his neck, hands wandering—hands _wandering_ ; (Spock felt almost like a normal temperature, for once, he guessed that passed as being feverish, right?); Something was—okay, yeah, Spock definitely had an erection; Jim was very quickly getting there, too; (Wait, did he know exactly what Vulcans were equipped with? Should he be more frightened, or excited?); Wait, hold on, what the fuck?; Considering the situation—frightened, definitely frightened.

“Spock—”

He made as much of a snap decision could be made given his current mental facilities and the need to recall specific details from his xenobiology courses, elbowed somewhere in Spock’s torso that he was pretty sure there was a sensitive organ, and bodily threw him off the bed.

He landed lightly, but stayed down. Jim scrambled up and backed to the opposite wall, breathing heavily, now noting that he didn’t _entirely_ dislike the combination of arousal and fear he was feeling at the moment. The concern, however, did kind of ruin the effect.

“Uh.”

“I apologize.” Spock’s voice was even more strained now, and Jim didn’t think he was imagining the tint of shame to it. “I am not currently able to control myself.”

The blanket slid towards, and then disappeared over, Spock’s end of the bed, with a weak _whump_.

“Yeah,” went Jim, still steadying his breathing. “Yeah—uh, what’s up with that?”

A pause. Then, “I would ask that you use more specific language.”

“Okay. I think it’s pretty obvious that this isn’t your normal behavior. So what is it? Are you _sick_? Can I help? Can _anyone_ help? And please tell me you’re not actually dying.”

“It is…a personal matter.”

“Yeah, well, things just got _pretty_ personal, between us,” Jim said, voice pitching up kind of an embarrassing amount. “So you can go ahead and tell me. Which means, by the way, that I’m pretty damn close to just ordering you to, but I’d rather not have to resort to that. Got it?”

Ruffling of fabric. Silence.

“Anytime now, Spock.”

“I require a moment to collect my thoughts.”

“Okay, fine. You have a minute.”

In the meantime, Jim desperately tried to kill what remained of his boner. The bright side of the entire situation being that worrying about the fact Spock might actually be dying did that job pretty damn well.

He didn’t actually keep track of the minute, but after what seemed like an appropriate length of time, Spock sat up, his head and shoulders finally visible beyond the bed. He didn’t, however, look over, opting to instead stare into the space in front of him. He took a deep breath, and an expression that passed for a frown settled onto his face.

“There is a process that Vulcans go through every seven years past the age of maturity that involves an imbalance of hormones. This can greatly impair judgment, especially in the undisciplined. Most notably, it inspires an almost inescapable desire to…mate.”

“ _Mate_ ,” Jim repeated, smile pulling at his mouth despite himself. “You’re in _heat_?”

“An appropriate comparison, yes.”

Aw, no—Spock was supposed to object to being compared to an animal. Now his comment just seemed mean, especially given that the Vulcan was ashamed enough already.

Jim sighed, shifting to lean more comfortably against the wall behind him and crossing his arms. “I can see why you’re holed up in here, then, if you’re going to jump anyone who gets within a half meter of you.”

“Not _anyone_ , Captain.”

Jim’s mouth went a little dry. He refused to extrapolate on that statement, cutting his line of reasoning off at the root. “You, uh,” he scrambled for a phrasing that asked what he wanted to ask without incriminating him. “You…have a type?”

Spock sighed, heavily, the outwards expression of emotion strange on him. “I am not completely without control,” he said. Then, at a slightly faster pace than he usually spoke, and when had Jim become so intimately familiar with his speech patterns, anyway?: “However, if there were an urge I spent a noticeable amount of mental energy suppressing while I was in a lucid state of mind, it would be exponentially harder not to act on it currently.”

Jim stared at him, heart pounding against his chest. Spock finally turned to stare back.

“Even more so if my partner’s autonomic system, at least, seemed to be responding favorably.”

Jim nodded, slowly. Then he slid down the wall, sitting on the floor and crossing his arms over his knees.

“ _Urges_ , huh,” he said, more to himself than anyone. He didn’t think Spock had those towards _anyone_ , and especially not _him_. He ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes and considering their options, a little surprised at himself that he didn’t immediately leap at the most obvious one. “So say you keep your current approach and try to wait this out. What happens then?”

Spock looked away, and Jim immediately knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“It is possible through meditation to calm the mind and emerge from such a period unharmed. However, if I am unsuccessful, it is likely that the stress will kill me.”

“And what would you say the probability of success is?”

“I estimate it to be about fourteen percent, Captain.”

“Do you like those chances?”

No answer. Not that he really needed one.

“Alright. The other option on the table. Say we…” he gestured between them. “Say we do this. Is that it? Will you get better?”

Spock stayed silent for a moment, glancing around the room briefly. No doubt he was trying to find a way to skirt around the truth in his usual manner.

“A telepathic connection is required for full release.”

“Okay, well, you can do that, can’t you?”

“It will cause undue stress on your system.”

“More stress than I can handle? More stress than you’re under right now?”

The question hung between them, and Jim huffed, starting to grow irritated.

“We’re adults, Spock, okay? And this is a life or death situation. Now, stop coming up with excuses and give it to me straight: Are there any downsides to this scenario?”

“I…” his eyebrows drew together, and he inclined his head towards Jim, though still not looking fully at him. “This is not how I wished to tell you.”

That, of all things, was the sentence that brought blood to Jim’s face, ears burning. He honestly couldn’t tell if this was Spock trying to have a heart-to-heart or if it was the last ditch effort in getting Jim to leave him alone. Because if there was one thing that could have him running out of a room screaming, it was trying to bring emotions into sex.

 _Spock_ , of all people. Damn it. This was not what he thought he would be doing when he woke up that morning.

Then again, the whole situation was more of a late-night fantasy, anyways.

“Yeah, uh,” he started, rubbing his eyes. If Spock was going to be digging around in his head, there wasn’t much a point in denying it. “This wasn’t...really...how I imagined my whole... _confession_ going, either, so we’re even, then.”

Spock finally looked up at him, eyes bright with interest and curiosity, but Jim waved a hand, insistently dismissive. “Sex now, emotional conversations later,” he said, standing up and brushing off his pants, mostly to have something to do other than make eye contact. “Are we…are we doing this?”

“I suppose we have no other option.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jim sighed. He looked up to find Spock up and about again, placing the blanket back on the bed. “Can I just…can I get a solid, ‘Yeah, let’s do this,’ before I come over there?”

“I am a willing participant,” was Spock’s answer, laced with impatience, which set off little pleasant sparks in Jim’s head. Spock. Impatient to screw his brains out. Oh, boy.

So he walked over.

The moment he was in arm’s reach Spock placed a hand on his face, none too delicately, and did—something, that sort of felt like a single, clear note ringing in his mind except it was silent and brought in its wake a sudden and decidedly non-academic knowledge of how it felt to be so turned on he might _literally die_.

He swore in that moment to every being in the galaxy that he would never complain about blue balls again and then, split between the urge to sob or to climb Spock like a tree, he chose—okay, perhaps both, but was most aware of his mouth against Spock’s and his hands bumping up against those pointy ears in an attempt to run through that horrible bowl cut and then Spock was _growling_ and he was on his back again, and it was pretty okay this time, more than okay, it was great actually, and holy shit, he wasn’t going to last very long.

He rolled his hips up in a desperate attempt to find friction _anywhere_ and was met with Spock’s hand, rubbing against him not enough times before moving to undo his pants instead which, alright, fine, though he really would have been perfectly okay with coming fully clothed, at that point.

He wiggled out of his pants, by some miracle finding the presence of mind for the foot maneuvers required to get his clothes on the floor and out of the way—he really should have taken his shoes off beforehand, but oh well, too late now.

Spock’s clothes were next, and Jim was confronted with something that looked not _entirely_ like a human dick, but he put a hand on it and tugged and Spock gasped as his hips thrust downwards so, you know, definitely close enough.

Close enough for rutting together like animals, more or less, but he didn’t really care because he wasn’t about to go hunting down _preparation_ for anything else and what he really wanted more than anything was every inch of his skin to be touching every inch of Spock’s because this really had to be ranking on one of the top five most intense experiences of his life and he’d crash landed spaceships onto planets _multiple_ times before.

His dull nails clawed against Spock’s back and Spock panted into the crook of his neck and he wasn’t sure who came first but they sure did go together, Jim maybe actually losing himself in the intensity of the shared moment, blinding white behind his eyes.

He came down slowly. Probably. It was a little hard to tell, but Spock was still there when he did. He felt a little bad about being surprised by that.

Spock, actually, was laying down, halfway _on_ him, head resting on Jim’s shoulder. He could have been asleep except for the hand tracing lazy shapes along Jim’s stomach, hiking up his shirt that he was, somehow, still wearing.

He couldn’t help but think that was kind of cute. Actually, since it was Spock, _unbearably_ cute.

“Wow,” Jim said, mostly breathed, staring up at the ceiling. “We need to do this again sometime.”

Spock’s only answer was a low hum of what Jim was pretty sure was agreement.

“Not now. Sometime. But not now ‘cause I think you just killed me.”

This got Spock to move, propping himself up solely to give Jim a questioning look.

“I presume you somehow mean that in a positive sense.”

“Oh yeah. Positive. Definitely positive. Like in a, ‘that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life and I’m going to be riding the afterglow for the next week so yeah, I’m good,’ kind of sense.”

Spock gave him that ever-so-slight head tilt and the ghost of a smile and Jim was hit with a wave of _affection_ that could really only be described as an avalanche of pillows—soft, warm, but still a little overwhelming and might possibly suffocate him.

He stared up at Spock, wide-eyed, and breathed a little laboriously against the feeling and it was only when he reached up to brush his hand against Spock’s face and felt something like the ghost of the sensation against his _own_ that he realized, “Oh, my god, Spock, is that _you_?”

Spock’s eyes widened a fraction of an amount and then he looked away, the jerk of his head coinciding with a stretch and then pain behind Jim’s forehead like a rubber band suddenly snapping against his brain, and he winced, but the pain faded quickly and once he settled back into his own, singular body with his own, singular sensations, a little balloon of his own, human, affection expanded in his chest.

“Aww,” he crooned, grinning and sliding an arm around Spock’s shoulders, “you _do_ like me.”

The Vulcan’s face was returning to a greener shade. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have—”

“I don’t know what you’re worrying about, but don’t. It was cute.”

“I…” Spock exhaled shortly, which passed as a sigh, before meeting Jim’s eyes again. “I am still unsure what you mean by that word.”

“What, ‘cute’?”

He nodded.

“It means. Uh…well…” Jim floundered. He wasn’t entirely sure how to describe a word that applied to how he felt about Spock in the current moment, but that he would also use to describe, perhaps, a floral arrangement, or an animal on the street. “Since it’s _you_ , it means you should come down here and kiss me.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow, visibly not satisfied with that answer, but he miraculously did not argue, instead allowing Jim to pull him down into a kiss and returning it, if a bit haltingly.

“In that case,” Spock said, mouth still close enough to tickle a little, “I find you ‘cute’ as well.”

Jim grinned, and then fought it back long enough to kiss him, again, and then, “Oh, wait.”

Spock pulled away, expression puzzled. Jim held up two fingers, waving them around a little. “This is how you Vulcans do it, right?”

Spock squinted somewhat in amusement. “That is within our cultural practices, yes.”

“What? Is that funny? C’mon, show me.”

Spock relinquished, falling to his side and mirroring the gesture, pressing his fingertips to Jim’s.

It felt…like fingers touching. A little lackluster, if he was to be honest.

“Yeah, I think I like our version a little better.”

“Mmm,” went Spock, in what could have been agreement or could have just been a hum. Jim’s bet was on a general placating noise, because the next thing he did was coax Jim’s hand open to lay their palms together—and then, with a feather-light touch, drag his fingers down to Jim’s wrist, and then back up again, trailing a lingering sensation that had the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

“Oh,” he said.

Spock nodded, pulling his hand away. “I think it’s time you returned to the bridge.”

“Oh,” went Jim, again. “Shit.”

***

The Captain strode through the Enterprise, greeting fellow crewmembers and not even attempting to suppress a glowing smile from gracing his smug little face, oblivious to all evil in the world and apparently oblivious, as well, to how he looked.

“Jim, what the hell? You look like you got attacked by a coyote!”

“Hello to you, too, Bones, how are you today?” he said, grinning at the doctor who had just appeared from behind a corner, looking a mixture of stunned and irritated. That was kind of just how Bones looked in general, though.

“Don’t you grin at me,” he said, rushing for a moment to catch up with him, “where have you been for the past hour? I thought you were going to check on Spock!”

“I did check on Spock.”

“… _and_?”

“Aaaand…” his smile grew a little wider. “And he’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Bones didn’t even attempt to hide his suspicion. “Fine,” he repeated, “He disappears for two days and he’s…fine.”

“Yep. We took care of it.”

“You took…” he trailed off, frowning deeper. Then he pulled up something on his PADD, looked it over, counted something off on his fingers, and then put an arm across Jim’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Need something?” he asked, entirely unbothered.

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

He shrugged, and that angelic little smile told Bones everything he _didn’t_ want to know.

“ _Dammit_ , Jim,” he cursed, letting him go, regardless. “You disgust me, you know that?”

He just shrugged, again, and continued walking, crooning something into the corridor about “a Captain to all my men,” the very picture of a man on cloud 9.

“Change your shirt!” Bones yelled after him. “And find something with a _collar_.”

He huffed, and continued his own way, shooing off a couple of rubber-neckers in the process.

As much as he didn’t want to think about the whole situation _at all_ , deep down he was glad it turned out how it had, because the whole thing reeked of disaster potential. He’d never seen a Vulcan _pine_ before, and hopefully he wouldn’t have to ever again.

Besides, he’d just won 100 credits off Sulu.

Silver linings.


End file.
